


asleep under my bed.

by vantas



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bittersweet Ending, Body Horror, Eldritch Abominations, Hallucinations, M/M, Semi-Canon Compliant, Surreal horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-11 15:22:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15318405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vantas/pseuds/vantas
Summary: There is a faceless man staring at him from across the room.  This is normal, he thinks.  (Or: Keith believes himself to be an average college student, up until reality starts tearing itself apart at the seams.)





	1. one sits on frozen waters.

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of the [Keith Mini Bang](http://keithminibang.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr! Featuring art by the lovely [curiously-artistic](https://curiously-artistic.tumblr.com/), which can be found [over here!](https://curiously-artistic.tumblr.com/post/175962677131/this-is-my-piece-for-the-keithminibang-the-fic)
> 
> Please excuse all the inevitable formatting errors I missed because I, a fool, keep forgetting how to AO3.

An alarm is ringing.

Keith is vaguely aware that someone should do something about it.

For now, however, the only thing on the forefront of his mind is getting rid of the pounding pain on the back of his head. It feels a little bit like someone is drilling a hole through his skull, pureeing his gray matter and turning it into a thick slush. His eyeballs feel like they're seconds away from bursting into flames; a stinging, burning sensation prevalent even as he keeps his eyes firmly screwed shut.

Though the last thing he wants to do is to _move_ , he doesn't really have much of a choice if he wants to shut his stupid alarm off.  For every second that passes, the intensity of its wailing increases. It starts to feel more like someone is screaming bloody murder right into his ear, doing their absolute best to render him deaf.  

Given the current state of his head, it's obviously not the most pleasant of experiences.

He can feel comfortable satin sheets beneath him; a plush bedding and fluffed pillows.  Neither of these things belong in his reality. He reaches out with his left hand and makes contact with his cellphone, outdated by half a decade.  For the briefest of moments — he can't remember where he is. He can't understand why everything feels odd and out of place, like he's trying to fit a piece of machinery in the wrong slot and miserably failing. His index finger works the top button on his phone, trying to get the alarm to _shut up_ so he can get enough silence to organize his thoughts, but nothing happens. He taps, taps, taps the button several times to no avail.

Unsurprisingly, his headache only gets worse.

("K͓͖̤̟̟̠̆̎͛ͩ̿͛̔e͉i͚̬͚̜͍̠̭̔ͥ̎̉ͭ̀͒ ̢̼͍̽ ̪̱͉͍̻̒̈ͦͫ͑ͅh̛͔̉͑͒͗—̞̲̱̺̬̿͌̔ͧ̚ ̥̠̱̻̝ͭͅͅ ̿́̅ͭ͗̀̿ ̪ͅY̰͔̩̝̞͚ͩ̓ͭ̑̈́͌̚o͎͞u͉̝̖ͪ̋͊ ̶̠͓͓̘̱͖̃ͪh̴̭̝̞̝͕ ̤͉̫̥̪̺ͩ̇ͦ̽͊̽̍v̪̦̤̱͠e̠͊̈̽̃͟ ̝̹̝̘̦̭̤̔ͫt̬͖͔̻̰͕͎͛̾͞o̖̱̰ ̴̺̻̪̥̩̗̄ͩ ̺͓̒͞ ̠͍k͉͉̪͇̾͒̑ͦ̉e̼͍͈̱̦̪̐ͅ ̞̖̻̎̇̋ͪ̐́u̜̯̹̖̼̰͇̾̏ͥ͛̒ ̝̳̙͖̣̫͐ͦͬͥ,̵̥͔̥ ̝̞͔̤͓̂p̡̝̗̞̤̆̉̀͑̏̚l̪̤͎͐ ̲͓͉̻͆ȧ̲̙s̴̱̭̺̦ͫ̃͆e̦̺̘̠̲̪͍̍.͇̝̙̗͚̳ͣͮ̓͑̅̉̊ ̠̺͙̺͈̏ͩ ̻̀͝ ̻͙̦̬̜͑̾ͅŶ̳̤̝̦̬͛̍̀ͮͥ͜ ͍̰̻͚͓̙̂͌ͪ̐ͤ̾ͨ͟u͇̬̲͕̘͚̱ ̴̺̤̩ͨͥ̾c͓̼͊a̡̮̳͖͓̱̜͇ͪ̔ ̠͚͋̽̅͐̈͟ ̷ͥͪṯ̻͉͚͚͚̅̆ͥͤ͜ ̨̳̰̠̟̉ͫ̅ͮ̅̍l̝͍̹̠͇͉͉̿̐ͥe̳͓͔̲̜a̍͜ ͔͚̱̙̙ͧ̒̂̿̀e͎̥̼̥ͅ ͚͖̩ͮͭ̄̾m̢̬̯̩͔͎̱̫̍ḛ̘̱͚ͨͫ͗ ̩̟͆ͨ̓ͅl̲͔̲͎̺̿ï̟͖̤͎̤̒̽̓ͥ̚ͅ ̩̬̼̠̫͑̌̂ͩ͆̓̀ẽ̼͇ ̭̩͖̹̺͉t̸͉̘̻̗̜ͪ͌͐͛̉ͨ͐ ͙̅̈ͨ͗ ̛̭̺͚͔͖̲̟s̟̠ͥ̐ͨ̿̐.̨̩͎̏ ͖̮ ̨̯ͥN̡̲͈̝͓̲̜̖ͩ̽̌͐̉̃o̙ͣ̆t͋̈́ͤ̽͒̚͏ ͎̤̹̓͐ͯn̪͙̥ͦ͝o̒̉ͦw̉̐̅ͧ͏̞̤̤̙.̗̓͂ ̰̩̤̪̫̖͐̑͛͐ͫ̅ͪ͘ ̥͕̅͊̍ͬͬ̍̏Nǫ̻̭̘̯͉t͕͗͌͂͜ ̦͕̳͉̱͍̉̈́ͤ̃ͅa̝̜̹̹̗͑̾ͭͥ͌̚f͈̦̟̑͠t̬͉ͭ͑ͬ̎̏͜e̬͎͎̙̪͚͟ŕ̹͓̞̹̣͇ͤͪ̾̓͋̚ ̹̘̓͐̉̀̎I̠͍̪̹̬̟̒ͦ̈ͭ̄ͯ̒͘ͅ'̄͋̇̔҉̟̤̝͚͈ͅͅv̨̝͈͉̱̫̫̰͌e͔̻̙̜͚̙̅̄ͯͣ̉ͯ ̷ͦ̎̈́ͯf̢̹̬̯̣̼̠̘̒̐ͫ̃ͨ͋̍o͌̀͊̀ͨͫͯ ̟̩͈̯̠͓ͤ̐̚͘n͚̦̮͈̦͕̈́ͧͯ͑͑ ͉̩ͣ͆͂ ̜͍̘̬̿͝ỳ̲̰̘̌̄o̭͉̲͕̪̥u͔̳͗.̀͜")

Next to him, someone laughs.

It's the most wonderful sound he's heard in the last miserable five minutes of his life. More than enough to keep his confusion and unease at bay, even as they lean over his body and reach over to take the phone from Keith's hand. He can feel the bed shift beneath him, the sheets rustling as they're moved — right before the room is plunged into blissful silence. Keith lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, tension seeping out of his body almost immediately. He feels safe.

"Good morning, Keith."

And just like that, the pain is no more.

Keith grudgingly opens his eyes as the phone placed back in his hand. He rubs the sleep gunk out of his eyes, stretching and feeling his joints pop as he attempts to feel more like a human being and less like a living pile of gelatin. Shiro is looking at him with amusement in his eyes, his black hair a mess after sleeping for several hours. Keith can only imagine how _he_ looks, given that he rolls around in his sleep twice as much as his boyfriend.

"I don't want to get up," Keith groans, petulantly. He's keenly aware of the trail of dried drool making its way down his cheek, jaw, and neck. It's both disgusting and ungraceful.

It doesn't stop Shiro from looking at him like Keith hung the moon and stars, though. For whatever reason.  Maybe it's the leftover grogginess.

"Too bad," his boyfriend says, leaning over to brush the hair out of Keith's face. "I'm dropping you off at college whether you like it or not."

Shiro's breath smells like something died in there — which isn't all that surprising, considering that they've both only woken up. Still, Keith scrunches up his nose in clear disgust. "One, why did I have to date the one guy who'd rather get me out of the house than keep me in bed," he mumbles, blinking through the sleep addled haze in his brain. "Two— _dude_ , morning breath.  You're killing me, Shiro."

Almost ( _definitely_ ) as if done on purpose, Shiro exhales right on Keith's face. "That's easy," he replies, all too cheerfully. "It's because I love you and I support you in all your hopes and dreams."

What an asshole.

But it's true.  Keith loves him.

Shiro tugs at his arms, forcing him to sit up in his bed even though he still isn't quite among the living. Keith's upper back pops as he shifts, leading him to roll his shoulders before he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. Shiro accompanies him to the bathroom as soon as Keith manages to get out of bed, passing him his toothbrush as they both start getting ready for the day. With one hand, Keith scrolls through all the notifications he received overnight. There's nothing that immediately catches his attention, considering most of them are email notifications or pings from social media he uses only every blue moon, but there _are_ a couple of text messages from his parents.

> **From:** Mom   
>  **To:** You ( _605–475–6968_ )  
>  _Good morning, Keith. I love you. ❤_

And—

> **From:** Dad   
>  **To:** You ( _605–475–6968_ )  
>  _morning, son. good luck at school today.  
>  _ _we love you. :-)_

He unblocks his phone, the corners of his lips quirking up as he spots the picture he's set as his home screen. An awful group picture taken during family game night. The lighting is atrocious and everyone looks like their skin is melting off their faces, but his parents are smiling and Shiro's arm is slung across Keith's shoulders — so he can't quite bring himself to replace it with something else. He shoots both of his parents a quick message in response, copy and pasting the same text out of sheer laziness disguised as efficiency.

> _I love you, too.  
>  _ _Text me what's for dinner later so I can convince Shiro not to cook tonight, please._

He spits in the sink after he's done sending the texts, rinsing his mouth and moving to the shower so he can wash the overnight sweat from his body. Once that's done, he settles in the kitchen with Shiro in hopes of finding something relatively edible for breakfast.

"How's, uh... How's our pantry looking?" Keith asks, despite already knowing the answer. The last time they went grocery shopping was the week before his 20th birthday — and they're on the second week of November now. Living away from your parents is, as it turns out, much easier in theory than in practice. Moving in with your boyfriend means remembering when to pay your own bills, when to clean the house, how to do two sets of laundry, and so many other little details that get lost in the hubbub of day-to-day life.

Like, for example, grocery shopping.

Shiro grimaces, holding the pantry door open with one hand and scratching the back of his head with the other. "Well," he begins, elongating the single syllable in a way that usually means he's seconds away from delivering bad news — and feeling pretty embarrassed about it. "We have... bread? We could have toast with eggs."

"I love you," Keith says, flatly. "But the eggs expired last week, so I threw them out. Let's just have grilled cheese sandwiches."

"Again?" Shiro asks, as if the answer isn't obvious.

"Again," Keith confirms, anyway.

Breakfast is as bland as it gets, which isn't really shocking given how collectively bad both of them are at remembering to restock on anything other than milk, bread and cheese. As per usual, Shiro sits down with a physical copy of today's newspaper like he's 25 going on 50.

"You know," Keith begins, between mouthfuls of nearly burnt bread. "Our carbon footprint's probably really bad from buying all those newspapers every year."

Shiro shrugs, licking his thumb and index fingers before turning the page. "I like the feel of paper," he says, without missing a beat. "And reading the online version from my phone gives me a weird headache."

Keith frowns. There's a weird sense of deja vu.  It feels like he's heard those particular words with _that_ particular intonation before — but nothing comes to mind. The feeling is gone as soon as it comes, and Keith is left trying to determine if Shiro had told him about this before.  After a moment he decides that, no, he doesn't remember his boyfriend telling him about this.

"You never told me about the headache," he comments, after a beat.

Shiro raises an eyebrow, lifting his gaze up from the newspaper in order to look at Keith in the eye. "I didn't?" he asks, almost contemplatively. "Hm. Weird. Well, now you know, I guess."

"... Yeah," Keith slowly responds, nodding. "Weird."

Shiro hums, going back to reading the newspaper between bites of his sandwich and sips from his drink. It's not until Keith's sure that the conversation is over that Shiro looks at him again, turning the newspaper around so Keith can see its contents. The headline is the first thing his eyes land on, the food in his mouth going bitter as something sharp and icy stabs through his stomach.

 

**MISSION TO THE EDGE OF THE SOLAR SYSTEM ENDS IN TRAGEDY**

 

"Why are you showing me this?" he asks, forcing himself to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat. Three dead astronauts. A wrecked space shuttle. A trio of corpses that cannot and will not be retrieved from the void of space.

"You wanted to be an astronaut, once," Shiro tells him, like it actually matters.

"When I was _sixteen_ ," Keith emphasizes. It does nothing to dispel the dread that washes over him.

"I know," Shiro responds, "But it's a good thing you didn't go through with it. This could have been you, Keith."

 _This could have been you_.

A corpse frosted over in the nothingness of space. Seconds of shock and horror as his last moments of awareness before he inevitably passed out. His saliva would begin to boil on his tongue, lungs rupturing if he dared to hold his breath. His flesh would swell, leaving nothing but a mutilated husk of what once was a human being.

He doesn't know how he came by this knowledge, but it's there. It is tinged with all the hysteria and fear of late night web searches; content consumed with such speed and volume that the imagery has taken permanent residence in his mind, promising to never leave for the rest of Keith's natural life.

(His parents, he assumes, should have installed better web filters when he was a teenager.)

"It's not me," Keith tells him, appetite spoiled. "I'm right here. I'm with you."

Shiro smiles at him, nonsensically, as if this whole conversation wasn't happening. "I know you are, Keith," he replies, reaching across the table to place his hand over Keith's own. "Where else would you be?"

And just like that, the conversation ends.

* * *

It's raining when they step outside.

Keith pulls the hood of his jacket over his head, crossing his arms over his chest as he waits for Shiro to unlock the car. It's a dingy, shrieking husk of a vehicle, really. Relatively recent enough that it doesn't qualify for an antique car tag, but old enough that Keith's sure the car was huffing and puffing exhaust fumes before he was even a twinkle in his parents' eyes. The plastic trim on the doors is thoroughly worn at this point despite their best attempts at keeping the car in optimal conditions, and the seats creak ominously even when they both carefully slide into them.

Once upon a time, Keith would have made a joke about the car's inevitable death.

But that was before he realized it was an inheritance from Shiro's late grandfather.

Kind of a dick move, really.

"Your last class ends at 2:30, right?"

Keith hums his confirmation, the side of his head pressed against the passenger side window as they make their way out of the driveway and into the main road. "Yeah. Montgomery's giving us an exam today, though, so I might be out before then. When does your shift end?"

"I should be out by 4:00," Shiro responds, keeping his eyes on the road. "But I'm all out of emergency hours, so I can't run off earlier to pick you up. You could hitch a ride with Allura if you don't want to wait, you know."

"And sit through Lance flirting with her? Right in front of my face?" he huffs out, face twisting with disgust. "No, thanks. I'll take my chances freezing to death in the computer lab."

Beside him, his boyfriend laughs. It continues to be the most wonderful sound to have ever graced Keith's ears. He feels like he would move heaven and earth to preserve that laugher — to make sure that Shiro never has a reason to be anything _but_ happy, no matter what.

"Okay, okay," Shiro says, still chuckling. "I get it. Are we any better, though?"

" _Yes,_ " Keith responds almost immediately. "We have— We have standards. Public decency."

"Sure," Shiro drawls, " _Standards_. Public decency. Remind me of that next time you decide to test out if people can really see through the bathroom stall gap."

"That was _one_ time," Keith snaps back, even though he doesn't bother to shrug Shiro off when he decides to place his hand against the base of his neck. It's cold and clammy and overall unpleasant, and _yet_ —

Shiro turns the steering wheel with both hands.

Keith presses his face against the glass window, closing his eyes and letting the cold take care of his flushed cheeks.

(His eyes sting again.)

* * *

Shiro drops him off at campus ten minutes before his first class. He presses a kiss against his forehead and runs a hand through Keith's hair, further ruining any semblance of style that may have once existed in their lives. It only takes fifteen seconds for Shiro to start ushering him out of the care, jokingly threatening to kick him to the curb, but not before telling him: "Have a fun day with Montgomery!"

His smile drops after Keith tells him to have fun at work. Fielding tech support calls is a special kind of hell that Keith would not wish upon anyone. Luckily, Shiro has long since perfected the art of sounding like he's completely and utterly at peace even when he's seconds away from wringing someone's neck. It's a skill Keith is both proud _and_ terrified of, all things considered.

Making it past the horde of food trucks that have taken semi-permanent residence in front of the campus gates, and dodging the eerily persistent ice cream vendor — Keith finds himself walking automatically towards Building C. He makes his way up the stairs, turns and twists his way around the students both sitting and standing in the middle of the hallways, and finally reaches his assigned classroom. The professor still isn't there, which isn't all that surprising considering that Professor Harris is potentially destined to be late to his own funeral, but most of his classmates seem to have settled into the usual seats by now.

He doesn't quite have both of his feet inside the classroom before Hunk is waving him over, gesticulating wildly from the back of the classroom and nearly elbowing Lance in the face. If their friendship were even _slightly_ more cordial, Keith would be wincing right about now.  But it's not, and laughing at each other's misery is what keeps this questionable liaison going, so Keith doesn't stop himself from snorting out a laugh as he makes his way towards his preferred seat.

"Morning, man!"  Hunk greets him, enthusiastically patting him in the back.  It feels a little bit like getting a jackhammer applied to his spine, but he lives Hunk well enough that he never gets around to asking him to tone it down.  "Did you get to have fun during the weekend?"

Keith gives him a one armed shrug, taking his backpack off his shoulders and settling down on the ground next to his desk.  "Kind of. I spent most of my time finishing Iverson's research paper."

"Oh, sheesh,"  Hunk responds, grimacing.  "I forgot you and Lance are taking PHYS 3039 this semester.  I'm holding off being miserable until my third year."

Behind him, Keith hears Lance scoff.  Sure enough, his friend is rolling his eyes when Keith tilts his head to look at him.  "Miserable? During the weekend? Hunk, my man, life is what you make out of it! I had the _best_ four day weekend of my life.  No stress. No projects. Just me, ninety-six hours of free time, and a babe in my arms."

"Lance,"  Hunk cuts in, staring at the ceiling as if it holds the answer to the biggest question of his life.  Namely, the answer to why his best friend is this way. "Nobody wants to hear about how you held Allura's hand and it was _oooohhh, so scandalous_."

"—What?!"  Lance sputters, his previous attempt at sounding cool and collected disappearing immediately.  "I do not sound like that!"

Except, Keith thinks, he totally _does_. And he also sounds way too offended by someone who does spend ninety-nine percent of their time waxing poetics about his girlfriend.  If it weren't for the fact that Keith is well acquainted with Allura by now, having shared several general education classes with her in the past, Keith would have believed her to be Lance's imaginary girlfriend from Canada.

"Oh. _Oh_ , buddy.  I hate to break it to you, but you totally do," Hunk says, right before he casts a look at Keith.  There's a grin on his face, the type that's usually reserved for when he's about to drag his best friend. "Right, Keith?"

"He does," Keith deadpans.

"See?" Hunk chirps, hands clasped on his lap like he's the personification of the word _innocence_.  Needless to say, he isn't.  "Keith agrees with me."

Lance's face has turned an interesting shade of red.  It doesn't take long before he's shouting, gesticulating wildly and drawing the attention of all their classmates. "Keith's opinion doesn't count! He's got a mullet, Hunk! _A mullet!_ "

Shocking absolutely no one in the history of humanity, Keith ends up tuning out most of Hunk and Lance's discussion after that point.

* * *

Montgomery's test turns out to be a ten page monstrosity, covered from front to back with premise after premise.  It is not, by any means, the kind of test one can turn in before the end of the period. He can hear the student sitting behind him muttering expletives, the chiming of the ice cream truck strolling down the street by the edge of the campus, and even the buzzing of a _fly_ that's gotten too close to his face.  The further he gets into the exam, the more it seems like everything he studies for wasn't included inside this monstrosity.  Conversely, everything he decided to skim through has a minimum of five exercises dedicated to it, like a shrine dedicated to his shame.

Keith turns in his exam nearly two hours later, walking out of the classroom with a stiff neck and a desire to take a ten thousand year long nap.

He sends Shiro a quick text once he's out of the classroom, asking him to text him once he's out of work.  His joints feel stiff from how cold the classroom was throughout the whole exam, and sticking his hands under the hot air hand dryer in the bathroom is thoroughly therapeutic.   Not even the long sleeved shirt and the sweater he's wearing can protect him from the cold, however, as it only seems to get worse once he makes his way to the computer lab.

Time flies by as he checks BlackBoard from one of the campus computers.  He sticks his flash drive into the USB port, fingers crossed that he hasn't lost the _virus roulette_ by doing so, before occupying himself by adding a few more references to his research project.  It starts to feel a little bit like someone is hammering a nail into his hip bones when he notices that, despite it being 4:30 PM by now, Shiro has yet to text back.

He picks his phone up with a frown, entering his passcode and writing another text to his boyfriend.

> **From:**  You ( _605–475–6968_ )  
>  **To:**   
>  _Did you get caught up at work?  Lmk once you're close so I can pack up._  
>  _I love you._

But Shiro doesn't answer with in the next ten minutes.

Or the next twenty.

Or the next _thirty_.

It's not uncommon for Shiro to get held up for some reason or another, but it's never without him sending him a quick text as soon as humanly possible.  Anything from _I'll text you in a second_ to a simple _Ok_ would suffice — but an entire hour of radio silence past the expected end of his shift is unusual.  It's impossible for Keith not to wonder what's happening, if Shiro is okay, if something's happened, if Keith did something to push him away once and for all, but—

( _Why would he push him away?_

_When has he ever pushed someone away?_

_He doesn't know._

_He doesn't remember._

_It's—_ )

He removes his flash drive from the computer, shoving all his belongings in his book bag and exiting the computer lab.

The sky is uncharacteristically dark for this hour, even when they're quickly approaching the end of the year.

Campus is strangely empty, as well.

He pays this no mind as he makes his way towards the closest bathroom, even though a little voice in the back of his head keeps telling him to be _concerned_ .  Alarm bells are ringing, but Keith is not ( _cannot be_ ) listening.

He pushes the bathroom door open, dropping his backpack on the countertop and waving his hand beneath the motion sensor to turn the faucet on.  He splashes water on his face, rubbing his eyes despite knowing what an ill advised move that is. This morning's headache has returned with a vengeance, crawling its way up the top of Keith's head, trailing down his sinuses and spreading all the way across his jawline.  His teeth feel like they're permanently clenched now, and he wishes he had grabbed some ibuprofen from his apartment before heading out with Shiro.

He's halfway through grabbing handfuls of toilet paper from one of the stalls when his phone starts to ring.

It's not the type of notification that comes from an incoming call.  It's the stunted, halfway aborted and quickly overturned _ping_ of receiving an onslaught of several messages at once.  He begins to dab his face with the paper as he moves towards his bookbag, unzipping the front and digging around for his phone.  Surely enough, there are several text messages waiting for him when he presses the top button to activate the screen. Each and every one of them is from Shiro.

But they're all blank.

He presses his lips together as he unlocks his phone, wondering if there's something about the messages themselves that makes it so they can't be displayed on the lock screen.  His device is old enough that it wouldn't be all that surprising, though it turns out not to be the case when he taps to open the message app. Keith's about to send a text back to him, asking what the heck is up with that, when a new notification pops up on the upper half of his screen.

It's a new message from his mother.  A video, weirdly enough.

He doesn't hesitate to tap on the banner to look at it.

It turns out to be a mistake.

For all of seven seconds, the camera shows nothing but a shot of the back of a gloved hand, laying on the ground and unmoving.  It's a blurry, distorted thing. The hand itself is blurry from its proximity to the lens, and everything else within the camera's range remains firmly out of focus.  He can't even begin to decipher where the video was taken before the hand is lifted up.

And then it slams back onto the camera just as quickly, being dragged away by something out of the frame.

Once he exits the video, he notices his mother has sent him another text.

> **From:** Mom   
>  **To:**  You ( _605–475–6968_ ) _  
> _ _Don't look up_.

Inevitably, his eyes drift up from the phone in his hand to the mirror right in front of him.

 

 

 

Someone is standing right behind him.

 


	2. another stares from the wall.

When Keith opens his eyes, he is alone in his bed. 

There is no headache.  There is no burning sensation in his eyes.  There is nausea, _yes_ , and he is disorientated — but it's not something that necessarily registers as alarming.   Drinking too much coffee during the previous day or sleeping too little tends to completely and utterly mess him up the following day, so he assumes this is what's happening.  It makes sense, after all. It wouldn't be the first time he's experienced something like this.

(Except — he doesn't remember going to sleep the previous night. 

He doesn't remember getting home.  He doesn't remember making the conscious decision to call it a day. 

It's like there's an empty void where his memories of the previous day should be.  Scattered fragments rattle around uselessly within his skull.  He could piece them together.  He knows the order in which they are to be assembled, after all.  He knows _exactly_ what has happened to him.  But he selfishly refrains from fitting the pieces together.)

He hears the telltale sound of his phone receiving a new notification, in another part of his apartment.

When he looks towards his nightstand, he sees that he failed to place it there to charge for the night.  He probably forgot to set his alarm, as well, judging by the fact that the sun is already rising over the horizon.  Birds chirp in the distance.  Crickets sing their last songs as daytime steadily approaches.  There is a comfortable warmth lingering in the air.  When he sniffles, rubbing his hand against his nose, it smells strongly of iron. 

The twin sized bed creaks as he sits up, swinging his feet over the edge.  He stretches his toes, bones popping as he moves to shove his feet into his slippers before making his way to the bathroom.  There is only one tooth brush by the sink, bright red and proudly displaying its company's logo.  He stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, noting the pale skin with blotchy cheeks.  His eyes are bloodshot.  His hair is a complete mess.  There are dark circles around his eyes. 

Regardless of the hour he went to sleep last night, it obviously wasn't enough. 

He spits out and rinses his mouth before splashing water on his face.  He digs blood out of his nails, flicking it off his thumb while assuming he must have scratched himself in his sleep — despite the lack of marks on his body.  The shower is still wet when he goes to use it, almost like someone had recently been here.  Considering the empty void within the recesses of his mind, it's all too easy to assume he took a shower in the wee hours of the morning.  Turning on the shower-head, he quickly cleans up and gets ready for the day.

His phone is on top of one of the counters, face down.  He has several social media notifications, 64% battery left, and three texts from an unknown number.  When he unlocks it, his home screen is a blurry picture of the night sky that he snapped a couple weeks ago.  Swiping with his thumb to the left, he then accesses his text messages.

The last message he received from his father is dated four years ago.  He staunchly refuses to acknowledge it, just as he staunchly refuses to delete it.  Most of his other messages are either from his classmates or from services he's subscribed to.  The only outliers here are the three unread texts he received from the unknown number.

> **From:** ( _605–475–6968_ )  
>  **To:** You  
>  I finally get you to look up and it reset itself? Dude, that's messed up.
> 
> **From:** ( _605–475–6968_ )  
>  **To:** You  
>  It even deleted HIM this time around.  Guess it wanted to get closer to reality??? Haha, wow.
> 
> **From:** ( _605–475–6968_ )  
>  **To:** You  
>  This is number twenty-eight, by the way.  The veil is gone.  You should remember what to do now.     

He does, and yet, he doesn't (want to) understand what the sender is talking about.  So, in the end, he exits out of the application and starts preparing his breakfast. 

Minutes later, he's turning on the TV with a hot cup of coffee and a healthy portion of three (3) buttered slices of toast.  He digs into his breakfast as the lifeless body of an astronaut stares back at him, pallid flesh and gray eyes causing something to stir within him. 

"Early reports from the Galaxy Garrison state that the mission failed due to pilot error,"  the newscaster says, serenely.  "█̘̞̼͇͔̥͍͋ͥ̐█̮̐̓̊͌ͥ͜█̹͓͕̾͗̅̎͆̌̚͢͡█̩͈̼̦̠͎̑ͩ̌ͥ͝█̀̈҉̖͕̪͜͢ͅ█̶̡͚̤͚̿ͤ͋͢█̶̫̼̦͇̬͈͕̯̋̏̆̋ͫ̒ͭͣ͘̕ ̯̜̄̌ͦͪ͐ͦ̌█̢̥͎̜͎͚̦̹̻͗̉͋̈̍ͧ͊́ͭ͢ͅ█̎̑̄͝͞҉͖̜͕̪͇̟̝ͅ█̙̭̖̼̑ͪ̉͋͐ͣ̊͛͘͜█̨̱́͐̔̌̉ͩͤ̂ͅ█̨̼̼̰̺̹̾̔͝█̡͔̪͉̬͓̾̔̓ͮ̔ͅ█̶̹͉̖̳̘̪͔͍̓̌̈█̵̘͓̈ͨ̽̅͊█̸̙̰̞̖̙̺̝̳͎̈̀ͥ͗̽ͩ͒̃͞ singlehandedly ended the life of Samuel and Matthew Holt.  We will update this exciting news story as more information comes in."

("█████, I... I..."

"I know.  I'll miss you, too, Keith.")

He takes a sip from his coffee, and pretends that he cannot feel the sensation of his saliva boiling on his tongue or his lungs bursting as he stares into the astronaut's eyes.

He pretends that, for a moment, that he doesn't realize exactly why that is. 

(The fragments start to piece themselves together, one by one.) 

* * *

Keith takes the bus to campus that morning, leaning his head against the glass and enjoying the view.  When he reaches his destination, Keith calmly makes his way out of his seat, past the driver, and down the short flight of stairs until he's standing in front of the campus gates.  He waves at the knife sharpening truck driver, unperturbed by the ringing of its bell as it presumably ushers death to come for all. 

( _Like the heat death of the universe._ Inevitable.  Unavoidable.  A far off eventuality.

Unlike the heat death of _him_.  Immediate.  Necessary.  A recent eventuality.

Someone was yelling at him to stop.  He almost didn't.)

For the first time in a long while, Allura is waiting for him when he makes it to the hobby.  Her hair is pulled up in a bun, a white and pink dress elegantly framing her body as she smiles at him.  It's been months since the last time he saw her.  They were both a sweaty, heaving, disgusting mess back then — covered in filth and sore beyond relief.  She had been leaning against Lance at the time, her expression serene despite the events of the past few hours.

This memory slots in nicely with the rest.  A mismatched sense of identity continues to develop.

"Good morning, Keith,"  she tells him, her hands clasped in front of her as he comes to a stop beside her.  "It's been a while since we've last seen each other, hasn't it?"

Keith runs a hand through his hair, tiny pieces of rubble pressing against his fingertips.  "Yeah, it has,"  he accedes, sighing.  "I've missed you, Allura.  All of you.  I'm sorry about—"

 _Everything_ , he means to say.  But Allura shakes her head.  Her pupils are a bright, nearly impossible pink.  She is not human.  She has never been human.  "I know.  There's nothing for you to apologize for," she tells him, reaching over to take his hand in hers.  "I wish I had refrained from pressuring you.  My... _Our_ intent was never to push you away."

"That wasn't on you," he responds, quietly.  Everyone in the lobby has stopped to look at them, but their faces are a blank canvas.  There is nothing there.  " _I_ was the one pushing you guys again.  With— With him back, you had the leader you guys deserved.  I can do a lot more from here.  I promise, it wasn't because of you guys."

"... I believe you," she says, but there is something quite sorrowful about her tone.  "All I wish to know now is when you'll wake up.  They had to contact us, you know.  I was only just recently able to break through the veil, but— It's up to you to snap out of the creature's control.  What are you going to do, Keith?"

For a moment, he wants to be selfish.  He wants to return to iteration number twenty-seven.  He wants to wake up by _his_ side, warm and secure and without the weight of the universe on his shoulders.  But he know that living so peacefully isn't like him, and that there are bigger things at stake.

Even though he didn't begin to put the fragments together himself, things have already begun to slip back into their respective places.

He sighs.

He can't afford to be selfish.

Not again.

"Give me an hour," he tells her, "And I'll wake up."

Allura nods.  Her features shift into those of a complete stranger — and then she is gone.

No one is looking at him anymore.

* * *

(It had begun a little like this:

A recon mission gone wrong.  An ally injured.  Keith's own desperation to save them leading into an even bigger mess.  By the time backup had arrived, it had been too little too late. 

The planet, after all, was infamous for the capabilities of its own local fauna.  _Mind eaters_ , the Blade would call them for a lack of better words, referring to their ability to trap their victims in an endless illusion.  _Eldritch abominations_ , Keith would reply — as would anyone else who has spent even a minute submerged in Earth culture.)

He walks through campus, cataloging all the different nooks and crannies of the world the abomination has created for him.  It is a mix of both the sense of normalcy he once yearned for and the multitude of experiences he acquired second-hand via consuming copious amounts of media.   Maybe, in another time and another place, Keith's life could have been a little bit like this.  He could have gone to college.  He could have met Shiro at another phase of his life.  He could have made friends with Lance, Hunk and Pidge without the threat of death constantly hanging over their heads.  

It would have been nice, he thinks.  Pleasant, even.  He could have gotten a degree without getting kicked out due to punching one of his teacher's eyes out.  He could have gotten a job that doesn't involve fighting for his life every single day.  _Heck_ , he could have even lived in a dingy one bedroom apartment in domestic bliss with the man he loves, blissfully unaware of the war waging beyond their solar system.

But Keith knows that none of that was meant for him.

Not with the galran blood running through his veins.

Not with the blade he inherited from his parents.

Not with the fact that the will to _fight_ is inherent in his nature.

He would not be himself if none of the things leading up to this moment had happened.  Perhaps he would have the same face.  Maybe he would even have the same body, or a similar personality.  But it wouldn't be _him_.

Because Keith is a soldier.  He is a cog that helps keep the wheels of the universe spinning.  Replaceable, perhaps, but important in the overall scheme of things.

Though he wishes Shiro and the others had lived a kinder life, that is neither here nor there.   The only friends he has ever had are still lightyears away from him, out of reach and varying degrees of distant towards him.  He had pushed them away, after all.  He had run off to the Blade of Marmora, nearly sacrificed his own life at Naxzela, and then he had carried on like nothing had happened. 

Once again, he is all alone.

He passes through the classroom he had visited yesterday, overhearing Lance and Hunk reenact the same conversation from before.  In the distance, he sees a figure that eerily resembles Pidge making its way down the stairs leading from one campus building to another.

This is all nice, _yes_ , but it is fake.

He rubs his hand against his nose, sniffling and taking note of the smell of iron. 

The faceless man stands behind him, the silhouette of his body a little clearer now.  A little more defined.  A little more _obvious_ now.

"Whatever you're going to do," Keith says, without looking back.  "You should do it now.  The scare from yesterday did the job, but now this is just getting old."

The man standing behind him tilts his head.  He is dressed in black, grays and purples.  There is a blade clutched in his right hand, all too painfully familiar.

"I was starting to think you were going to be thick headed about this, too," the man tells him, in Keith's very own voice.  "You ignored my texts but had a whole conversation with Allura who _isn't even physically here_?  Dude, what gives?"

"Can we not make this weird?"  Keith retorts, turning his head to look at himself from the corner of his eyes.  "Allura _is_ here.  I think.  Kind of.  It counts." 

There was never a faceless man.

It was just his own brain screaming at him to wake up.

And so, Keith's own mirror image rolls his eyes at him. "Okay, yeah.  Sure.  Just— Don't move."

The blade plunges into the back of Keith's neck, severing his spine in one swift movement.

* * *

He wakes up to Krolia's face staring down at him, ashen and drawn and haggard.

Keith licks his lips, chapped and tasting of iron. 

"Hey," he says.

Krolia lets out a breath, reaching to brush the hair out of Keith's face.  "Hey, yourself,"  she says, quietly.  "I just found you, kid.  Don't give me another scare like that."

"I'll try," he responds, despite the war waging just outside of the small safe space they've tentatively carved out for themselves.

He isn't entirely sure if he means it.

(But an attempt will be made.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on: [tumblr](http://carcinology.tumblr.com/) • [twitter](https://twitter.com/beheads).

**Author's Note:**

> find me on: [tumblr](http://carcinology.tumblr.com/) • [twitter](https://twitter.com/beheads).


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